


"We can share."

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: 100 ways (to say I love you) [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 20:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17008881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Everything's been going somewhat okay, given the circumstances.Until it suddenly Is Not Okay.





	"We can share."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fangirlingintensifies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlingintensifies/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> Please be advised that I was aiming for angst with this. Whether I hit the mark or not is up for you to decide, but consider this fair warning that reading further does not result in happiness and rainbows.

They're not _too_  far from a haven when the endless swarm of daemons drives them apart.  Ignis can see the bright glow of the warding runes in the distance, a welcome beacon he orientates himself for, struggling against the tide of two daemons for every one he cuts down.

They're not particularly _troublesome_ , either, bombs easily dispatched with a few elemental spells and imps taken care of with good aim and a strong throwing arm, and while the spider women are difficult to dodge when they swoop down from their webbing and a nightmare to catch, the Marilith made a more fearsome opponent.  There's just so _many_ of them blocking the path to their destination and separated from Prompto and Gladio as they are it makes for a bloodier scrap than he's used to (caves dwellers are a different story entirely).  So Noct's awkward gait doesn't concern him overly much when they finally make a break for it, a Red Giant hauling its bulk from the earth's cradle not ten feet behind Ignis.  His run's shifted into a shambling, side-stepping rush before, after the strain of battle or a blow to his back, nothing several curatives can't fix.

Oh how wrong Ignis is.

* * *

It isn't dread that makes his palms clammy and settles a cold, uncomfortable weight in his belly, kicks his heart into fifth gear, no, it's  _concern_ as Noctis collapses into the chair and almost topples it over backwards with the careless pitch of his weight.  The leg he stretches out with a muted groan of discomfort  _isn't_ his bad knee acting up from phantom pains of an old injury and Ignis knows even without checking and double checking and all but flipping the Armiger upside down that they don't have enough curatives between them to mend every wound.  They'd been running low before the swarm hit, and now...

"How many curatives do you have on your person, Noct?" he asks, still not quite dreading just yet, maybe this time his gut will be wrong and shit  _isn't_ about to hit the fan.  That's not too much to hope for, is it?

"None?  I left my pack in the car."  The very same car now in Imperial hands, if not squashed to a pulp under Titan's feet.

... Shit.

"How bad are you?  Broken bones?  Nicked arteries?  Punctured kidney?  Stasis?  Headache?"

"I'm  _fine_ Iggy.  Just a few cuts and bruises."

"But the risk of infection -"

"Won't be a problem!  My god, Iggy, stop.  You're going into mother hen mode.  Toss me a can of Ebony, let me catch my breath, and I'll make a potion out of it.  We can share."

"Your leg -"

"Will not die and fall off, you madman.  And your face looks like you ran into the sharp end of a Ronin's blade," it does?  He doesn't feel it, yet, "seriously, sit down."  He sits, mainly because Noct's eyes, dark as they are, are almost snapping sparks... though his legs  _do_ feel like jelly now he can afford to be stationary for more than a couple of seconds.  There is no fire, however, and he creaks forward to get one started, only for a lance to smack atop his thighs in a burst of warp-blue, and yes Noct looks exhausted but there's a stubborn lift to his chin and a glimmer of red in his stare.  Not just  _Noctis_ speaking, but his  _prince._

 _"Sit._ We're good for a couple of minutes."  As good as they  _can_ be stuck out in the open like sitting ducks, exposed to the elements, down two teammates and surrounded an all sides by daemons hissing and spitting at them, no doubt rightly furious they can't step over the runes and feast on their bones.

And maybe he's just being a worrywort, too much stress too soon with no break, life or death situations so much more harrowing than due papers or staring down Lady Gertrude and her disdain for all things barring arranged marriage and succession to the throne.  Come morning they'll have heard from Prompto and Gladio, they'll secure a mode of transport, and they'll be on their way to the nearest motel with the promise of laundered clothes and warm showers by lunchtime, ready to discuss immediate plans and lay down some feelers for so much as a  _whisper_ about a flashy car.  They'll be  _fine._

* * *

_From the deep, the Archaean calls_

_Yet on deaf ears, the gods' tongue falls_

_The King made to kneel in pain, he crawls_

Yes, Noctis crawls, they  _all_ do in the face of Titan's rage, knocked over and thrown around like ragdolls as he pummels the crater he's in again and again and -!

\- Noctis isn't crawling anymore, he's  _falling_ as a chunk of rock breaks off and Gladio isn't fast enough to catch him, Ignis is too high up to do more than yell his name and the ground shudders beneath him, around him -

He startles from the nightmare to find Noctis precariously balancing his chair on two spindly legs, the firm clasp of his hand on his shoulder a welcome heat against the night air.  Still shaking him.   _Ah._   That would explain the turn his nightmare took there at the end.

"Noct-?"

"Here, drink this.  It's the strongest I could make it."  He catches the can thrust at him on automatic reflex, wired as he is to never squander a single drop of coffee - except the can is  _warm_ between his palms and when he snaps the tab open he has to squint against the liquid sunlight seemingly housed within, hissing and bubbling and most  _definitely_ not appetising.  Noct's magic always carries a... a flavour that coats the tongue, not quite metal and not quite foul but... strange.  Very strange.  Perhaps like sticking a battery in his tongue, though Ignis has never been daft enough to try that, unlike a  _certain_ Amicitia.

"I think this is _the_ strongest curative you’ve fashioned to date.  Are you alright?”  If he’s exhausted himself of the magic granting him some level of accelerated healing and immunity to illness -

“'m good.  Think havens amplify my magic output, is all,” Noctis replies and Ignis won’t deny watching him like a hawk as he turns his gaze to the stars.  He _looks_ no worse for ware, perhaps a tad paler than usual, but that could simply be a trick of the light cast by the runes underfoot.

Burnt coffee on his tongue, with the consistency of _syrup_ rather than caffeinated delight and he pulls a face as he sips at it, sputters a little with the crackling kick at the back of his throat on the way down.

 _“Potent,”_ he says, explanation and disgusted compliment both - his poor _coffee_ \- before handing it over and following Noct’s gaze to a night sky so _clear_ without - without the armour plating of the Wall in the way, feels just a _little_ glee at Noct’s expense when he, too, coughs at the horrid concoction they’re to share.

 _"God_ that's awful."

"You said it, not me."

"Suppose it could be worse... could taste like raspberry bubblegum."

"Or cauliflower."

"Ew!  Iggy, no, why?!"

"You started it."

"So you had to mention  _veg?_ Betrayal.  I don't know you.  Disowned."  It's such easy banter, like it used to be in the Citadel kitchens at awful o'clock when neither of them could sleep and Ignis took to stress baking and Noctis kept him company for the promise of  _food_ at the end of it...  He laughs until he's close to crying, until his sides hurt, until he has to set the can down for fear of spilling its precious contents, and then Noctis is laughing along with him and he can't  _breathe._ His heart both lifts and aches at the sound, non-existent since they heard word of the Crown City's fall.  He's missed it.  He's missed looking at Noct and glimpsing the prince's mantle slip from his shoulders for a few hours, a few minutes, a single bloody heartbeat.  He can't remember a time when Noct's eyes were clear of shadows, of pain, of a slow-burning grief set to blazing in one night.

He's missed Noctis and this and while a Red Giant still tromps around and he knows they'd be dead if not for the haven... it's almost perfect.   _Almost._

"Hey, Iggy?"

"Yes Noct?"

"Can we see Odin's belt from here?"

So they draw their chairs closer and Noctis pulls blankets from the Armiger for them to huddle under and they look skyward as Ignis searches for the familiar group of stars, pointing when he finds them and resting his cheek in Noct's hair when he leans on his shoulder to follow the sightline he makes.

"Your sense of direction has always been abysmal."

"Hey!  My direction is fine!  Astrology's just... a different matter."

"You would make a poor navigator, then."

"'s why I have you with me," Noctis says, right at his ear, and when he twists and drops his gaze to look at him, Noctis kisses him, slow and sweet under the stars and Ignis has missed  _this_ , too, makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he cups Noct's cheek to keep him close.  One kiss, two, a dozen, so distracting, so uplifting, so  _right._

"What's the story behind Etro's cauldron, again?"  Noctis asks, breathes, right in his face, forehead to forehead and smile near smile, and so Ignis delves into the story of creation as he tracks down the shimmering "pot" in the sky.

They pass the curative back and forth, talking as a distraction from the hellish itch of its work, stargazing to keep their eyes off the literal nightmares surrounding them.

* * *

Ignis checks Noct's leg in the morning when he still hobbles along in the general direction of a road (they hope), fighting against the glue of dried blood to roll up the heavy material.

And somewhere in his chest, torn and bruised and screaming for all they've lost, his heart goes silent.  Whatever wound had been there is little more than a faded scar on his calf now... but the area is a livid red, inflamed and painful to the touch if Noct's hiss is anything to go by and in the middle of it all... a spiderweb of black veins.

_Scourge._

"Oh," Noctis says in a painfully calm tone, "oh shit."

 _Now..._ now Ignis knows dread.


End file.
